This is creative writing exercise. Most of the work posted is unfinished, so comments and critiques are appreciated. My email is below in case you would rather send me your thoughts privately. Thanks for visiting, and I hope you enjoy!

Wednesday, December 9, 2015

Digging through the bag of timothy hay, Jery thought to himself this isn't so bad. He had lived with this family for a month, and, at four months old, he was settling into himself. He had a place of his own with a steady supply of hay, pellets, and water. Every other day, he got some fresh fruit and veggies. Bananas were his most favorite.

Guinea pigs are not the most placid animals, and Jery could jump and the sound of a hair falling on the floor. The seemingly inaudible sound could have been a resonant toll of a bell for the shock that it caused to Jery's sensitive system. His obituary would read one day He was very brave for such a skittish boy.

heidi

written 12/9/15

I haven't been to Three Word Wednesday in a long time, so I thought I would try it out today. I have also not posted here in way too long. This is a bit of free writing using 3WW. Here are this week's words.

Obituary, noun: a notice of a death, especially in a newspaper, typically including a brief biography of the deceased person.

Placid, adjective: (of a person or animal) not easily upset or excited; (especially of a place or stretch of water) calm and peaceful, with little movement or activity.

Resonant, adjective: (of sound) deep, clear, and continuing to sound or ring; (resonant with) (of a place) filled or resounding with (a sound); having the ability to evoke or suggest enduring images, memories, or emotions; (of a room, a musical instrument, or a hollow body) tending to reinforce or prolong sounds, especially by synchronous vibration; (of a color) enhancing or enriching another color or colors by contrast.

Friday, November 13, 2015

During the last three weeks of my pregnancy with my son, my blood pressure kept increasing, until my doctor decided to induce my labor. It was Friday the 13th. After a few hours of being on a drip, my labor began. Now, my early labor is not very painful. It makes me feel like Wonder Woman deflecting bullets with each contraction. Then my water breaks. Post water breaking labor is like *cries* with
puking. After throwing up three times in the longest five minutes ever, the anesthesiologist came to give me an epidural. She told me to sit up and be still (which is hard when you are having contractions). I manage to sit up, not puke, and be still. She inserts the needle and it feels like she has just plugged me into a wall socket. Electricity shoots up my body and shudder a little. The anesthesiologist says "you're going to have to be still." I said "you're shocking me." So we try again. I throw up a little, and then I sit still. She pokes me again and connects me once again to the wall outlet. "You really have to stay still when I am doing this," she says to me. "Oh, wait. Oh you poor thing. I was in the wrong spot." There's a small prick in my back and within seconds I can hear Grace Slick in my head "one pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small." I can't feel anything except mellow. The anesthesiologist asks me "How do you feel now?" I say "Like Grace Slick is singing just to me." She says "I don't understand what you mean." My nurse, who must have been some sort of child prodigy, because she couldn't have been a day older than 16, says "She feels high." I say "You get me. Do you like Jefferson Airplane?" My prodigy nurse says "I don't know who that is." But she is very distracted by the machines that I am hooked up to and some readouts. This is where things get a little fuzzy. Because then, there's my doctor. I don't remember this, but my husband has since told me that my doctor looks at machine stuff and says "Oh shit … oh shit … Oh Shit!" (my husband did not find that comforting, since it was not in our birth plan.) And so then I am getting prepped for an emergency c-section. Someone hands me a cup and says "Drink this!" and so I do. A few minutes later, the bad thing happens, and I know it's happened because I can smell it, but I don't care because I'm so high and I'm about to have my baby! Then my doctor is there again with an electric razor,and all I can think is "dude, you should have bought me supper first." And then I am on a gurney being whisked to the operating room, and it's all very E.R. And it makes me want to sing. So I start singing "They're trying to make me go to rehab, I said no, no, no." The operating room is packed with people. I notice the nurses around me are very concerned with my husband, asking him if he's going to faint, which he doesn't. So I sing a little "Rehab" to him to help him calm down, you know like you do. Sometime during this, I have failed a test to see if I have enough drugs in me to withstand the surgery and they have given me some more drugs. Which makes me intensely nauseated. That is when I realize that the only part of my body that I can move is my head. And I can't move it a lot. I pan. I panic hard. "I'm going to throw up, I going to throw up, I'm going to throw up!" There was some reassurances said and a slight movement to my right, and my mellow is back. I have to sing! "They're trying to make me go to rehab, I said, la la la la la la la la Elmo's World. Yes I've been bad, but when I come back you'll la la la la la la la la Elmo's World." There's an angry pissed off crying past the fabric barrier covering my abdomen and I see my doctor hold up my son. He's long, with huge Fred Flinstone feet, and he is the maddest little newborn ever. I cry. He's beautiful and I love him. The anesthesiologist, who I think may have been the person on my right the whole time asks me "Why are you crying? He's okay." I think this is a beautiful f-ing moment, I'm happy. That's why I'm crying. What I say is "My son. He's so pissed." And that's how I met Eli.

heidi
written 4/2014 for Arc Stories (which they eventually decided against.)

Sorry for the unedited block of text, I'm trying to do this in a minute.

The heartbeat was declining
they wanted to perform an emergency
C-section.
My sweet guy grows pale
as they give me even more drugs
and Jefferson Airplane starts to play
the theme music for the scene.

We can have you in there and delivered in less than
10 minutes.
And I tell my sweet guy that it's all
going to be
okay.

I am quickly wheeled into another room
it's like a scene from a TV show
and still I get more drugs
and, oh shit, I'm going to vomit
and OH SHIT, I CAN'T MOVE!
It's the only time I have panicked.
And then more meds and all that
nasty nausea goes away
and now it is Amy Winehouse.

"They're trying to make me go to Rehab
and I said
No
No
No."
People are talking at me and I still sing
"Yes I been black, but when I get back you'll
la la la-la, la la la-la Elmo's World"

People talk talk talk at me
it makes little sense,
and then an angry cry.
He's a perfect, pissed off 7 lbs 7 oz
with big Fred Flintstone feet
and the anesthesiologist says
"Here he is, and he's just fine...
why are you crying"

I think
"because this is a beautiful motherfucking moment dumbass-
listen to how pissed he is."
What I say is
"No
No
No"

Off I go to recovery
to have someone watch me for
an hour
as
I
come
down.

Saturday, August 8, 2015

What happens
when she reaches
the age
Where
She is no longer
An innocent child,
But a slut,
A tease who
Is probably asking for it,
Even if she hasn't developed enough
To know what it is.

What happens
When she is no longer
A life worth saving
But someone who
Should have known better.

When her value
As an incubator
Is more than her
Value as a person?

At what point will
She fall out of the
#AllLivesMatter
Blanket?

Will it be
For being a sexual being?

Will it be
Because someone stronger
Made her his object?

Will it be
Because her life isn't
As important as a fetus?

Or will it be
More like the moment
Kimberly McCarthy's life
Ceased to matter.

That moment
After Wendy Davis's
Eternal filibuster,
After good Texan men
Preached the Sanctity of Life,
They gave Ms. McCarthy
Her final honor.
The phrase that will forever
Follow her name,
The 500th person executed
By Texas since
1982.

Because #AllLivesMatter, right?

Her life matters
As an example
Of how
It didn't.

heidi
8/8/15

I sure hope I get through this next presidential election without my head exploding.

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

This poem and the one about Steve Carell are the last two from a writing prompts challenge with one of my friends. I'm phoning it right now, or I'd link you. (Maybe when I have better equipment. ) The previous poem was a response to a prompt to write about having a conversation with someone famous. This one was in response to rewrite a fairy tale.

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

I was at a cafe
Or a coffee house
Drinking sweet tea instead
Of coffee
And Steve Carell
Walked in the fucking door
And ordered a coffee?

Of course, the Cafe would be crowded
And he would want to sit down
And I'd have a chair ready.

Here Steve, have a seat

He'd see and appreciate my
University of Alabama tee
And sit down with aRoll Tide.

I'd give him a minute to enjoy his beverage
Before confessing

I miss Michael Scott!
I hate that I only get reruns
Of him.
I have memorized every line.

And Steve Carell would understand.

Because he understands why I write this blog.
He understands how awesome the word fuck truly is.
He understands that my depression is not personal.
He gets my little obsessions.
He appreciates a fart joke.
He knows how I feel about my kids.
He understands that cunt should be a legal WWF move.

And Life, without Michael Scott,
Well,
It's so hard
He always left me smiling and satisfied

That's What She Said!

Steve and I would blurt that out
At the same time
Trying to say it first

Saturday, June 20, 2015

The triage nurse
couldn't promise my husband
That I wouldn't have
A stroke
Just walking to my room.

The nurse comes in and sticks me
I now have an IV port
And a blown blood vessel
And my mouth is dry
But I can't have ice
Because that may also cause
A stroke.

The ER doctor asks
So many questions
Mostly about why am I
Not taking my antidepressants
Why have I not gone to the gynecologist
For my 8 month period
Why haven't I followed up
On my ever increasing
Blood pressure.

And I have to admit
That I am afraid
That where, as I have often reassured
My therapist, I do not have an active
Suicide plan.
Maybe it wouldn't be
The worst thing ever,
Especially for my family,
If it just happened.
Maybe I just don't care if I die.

So, of course, the ER doc yells at me.
Because that is what you do
When a middle aged woman with
A 209/120 bp and an anxiety disorder,
Who you think may stroke out,
Tells you that she may want to die.

So I get Ativan,
And go home
With my angry husband
Who won't tell me he's angry.
After two days, and bruises
Where there were needles,
I begin to feel human
Again. As, even with my meds,
My pressure starts to creep back up.
Because my life is still
The same
And I still feel helpless
To change it.

And I really don't want to die
Especially not that way
With the nausea and pain and fainting
And yelling doctors.

But I don't want this life anymore.

And I guess dying always seemed
The only way
That anything would ever change.

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

And there were lots of
Interesting
Thought provoking
Intelligent
Conversations.

And there were comments that she was brave.

-Cue fucking Facebook-

(The progenitor of most of my middle-age rage. )

With posts basically saying

That's not braveThis is brave

And a picture of a mutilated soldier.

Because we can't just use people's challenges

To prove to ourselves how good we are anymore

To choke our moral chicken on the inspirational suffering of others

To pull our self righteous pud over our perceptions over how inspirational it is to be like everyone else.

Now we pause

mid-masturbation
to fling
our
inspiration-porn-pictures
in
another
person's
face.

Use it to hurt them with the comparison:

This isn't you. Bravery is finite. You are no longer entitled.

Because, after all, Caitlin is no longer an Olympic hero...

She's a media whore.
(Isn'tthatjustlikeawoman?)

And bravery is only reserved for those that we also kind of pity.

heidi

written: 6/3/15

I think y'all may know how I feel about Inspiration Porn, but now people are using it to attack Caitlyn Jenner. I'm also thinking that I may start posting more of the poems I wrote when I get pissed off. I may actually be in a place where I am okay with it.

Thursday, April 30, 2015

We were called to write a poem starting with the ending. With it, I think I have grown a little tired of the romantic stuff. It feels like I wrote of that a lot this month. Maybe I'll write one more that's happier to go in my sweetie's pocket for Poem In Your Pocket Day.